The Language of Flowers
by Sectumsempra11
Summary: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are newlyweds spending their honeymoon in Paris in blissful matrimony, but the unsettling reach of the Dark Lord's influence and the drum of war is on the horizon. (AU for timelines. A stand-alone sequel to "A Thousand Constellations". Often NSFW.)
1. Chapter 1

The Language of Flowers

Author's Note: This is sequel to "A Thousand Constellations", so if you wish to read that one first for historical background, feel free. However, I intend for this story to stand alone. This story is AU and follows timelines casually. It is also rated M/NSFW for violence and sex scenes (they're newlyweds afer all.) Thank you for reading!

Water rippled and rushed across the beach, crashing against the high cliffs. The sun bore down upon the water and speckles of light danced across the surface. A slim girl with light blonde hair half-braided down her back stood on the edge of a high cliff, her body glistening with droplets of water. Her ordinarily pale skin was bronzed from the sun. She lifted her body forward, dove from the high edge and arced her back into a perfect swan dive. Wind whipped by her ears as she fell. She tilted her fingers forward and prepared to meet the water—the surface water was warm as she slashed through it and into the cooler depths of the sea below. Her body was singular and swift, balanced and lithe. She pressed the soles of her feet into the soft sand and propelled her body forward.

Narcissa Malfoy broke the surface and floated in the crystalline blue water. Muggles frequently inhabited Les Calanques De Cassis in Marseille, but today the beach was empty. Those that wandered up suddenly found themselves out of place, with the strong desire to return home. With a pop, she Apparated to the edge of the cliff again. She raised her arms up above her head and tilted one foot back to propel herself when she was lifted out of the air. Strong arms wrapped around her abdomen suddenly and pulled her away from the cliffs. Lucius laughed in her ear.

"Going somewhere?" he whispered.

"As a matter of fact, yes," she replied, laughing jovially.

Her newly minted husband was none other than Lucius Malfoy, who had been one of the most prolific eligible bachelors of her generation. Both reserved and rebellious, he caught her attention in the summer before her fifth year during his birthday party at the Malfoy manor in Wiltshire. He seemingly disappeared from the party and was nowhere to be found, and since he was the second on her card, she chose to wait for his return to the dance floor before dancing with the other suitors. After what seemed like ages, his parents found him and returned him to her.

She loved him fiercely for his stubborn independence and his wild streak, his often utter defiance for the rules and his loyalty and devotion to protecting her, though sometimes this was both admirable and fear inducing. She pondered at his ease of violence, his comfortability with ruthless behavior, but despite this, she loved him. She loved the quiet parts of him too, how he withdrew to the study in the manor they were staying at in Paris for quiet reflection and research on Herbology and Ancient Runes.

They married only two months ago. Her wedding had been a dream. A warm wash of sunlight and a white lace eyelet dress, an overflowing garden full of bursting and blossomed flowers. Albino peacocks with brilliant feathered plumes on full display. They married in front of the ancient tree in the center of the courtyard at the Malfoy mansion, as tradition required of all Malfoy family members. It was a beautiful day, but the long summer days of exploring Paris and sunning on the beaches in France was far more enjoyable. Her studies would begin in the fall. Narcissa wanted to finish her N.E.W.T.S. but had not been able to stay at Hogwarts for her final year. In fact, she had barely negotiated her sixth year, but with luck managed a governess to finish out the rest of her studies.

Lucius placed her back down onto the ground and took her by the shoulders. He kissed her deeply and earnestly, hasty lust fogged his mind since ever since they were married, though they had not bothered to wait until their wedding night. The electricity between them was enduring and nearly intoxicating, and they had frequently found themselves in an empty Herbology greenhouse with the door locked. Or the Prefect's bathroom, her body pressed against a corner of the overlarge tub. In times she was not at Hogwarts, Lucius was very punctual in sneaking in through her bedroom window late at night, and he disappeared just before dawn to not arouse suspicion with her parents. Their honeymoon was hardly different. They spent hours on the beach making love and on every surface of the mansion, blissfully unaware and unconcerned with anything beyond each other.

He was feverish with want and moved her to the ground, pulling her bathing suit from her body and slipping his body over hers, in between her legs. They kissed until her lips were bruised and aching, her hands wound through his long hair up the back of his neck and she pulled sharply, panting against his lips. He groaned and pushed her legs roughly to the side and removed his own swim suit; he hardly hesitated before he was inside of her fully, thick and filling her. They roughly thrusted into one another against the sandy ground. Leaves and small branches were digging into her back, but she didn't notice as he curved his hand down her hip to her center and brushed his fingers against her until she was gasping and sighing, clenching around him and releasing. He brought her to climax three times before he let himself, and then he sank exhausted against her body.

She learned many things during the bouts of insatiable lust that controlled them both. The first was that Lucius regarded her body as some sort of sacred temple, divined for him to please. The second was that she came to regard it as such too, and though it was unneeded, she demanded it of him, pressing his face into her skin and wrapping her legs around him and commanding him. Marriage had brought out a confidence in her. She had always been a wild, creative girl who loved hiking and losing herself deep in forests. She swam in rivers when her mother tried to encase her in a corset and failed. What she did not know herself to be was a leader, effortlessly in charge. Lucius was often at the mercy of her whims. This dynamic was unfamiliar. Women in her station were not leaders, merely financial and political objects fathers and husbands traded in times of peace to avoid times of war. She was trained to be submissive, to quietly manipulate men and their fragile emotions. But Narcissa did neither of those things anymore, and instead was forthright and told her dear husband exactly what she wanted. Lucius could never say no to her.

"At this rate, you'll be carrying our child within the month," he said, as he sat away from her and then reclined onto the ground and stretched.

"The potions master promised us a year," she replied languidly, stretching out her legs.

She stood up and pulled her bathing suit back on. Lucius watched her dress, eyes fixated on her like a wild cat.

"This Muggle shop I found the other day touts the flexibility and meditation effects of yoga," she said, lifting her legs and arms into one of the poses she had seen through the wide windows. It gave her the look of a flamingo, one leg resting on her thigh and her arms bent in front of her, as though in prayer. "Have I mastered it yet?"

"I'm no expert," he replied softly, "but you seem to be."

She dropped her legs and arms back. "That's a beginner pose. Lucius, you're flattering me."

"And why shouldn't I?" he asked her, tilting his head back and closing his eyes to catch sun.

He did not open his eyes again until he couldn't hear her anymore. When he opened them, she'd already dived off the side of the cliff again. When she Apparated back, he rolled his eyes.

"Show off," he remarked.

He was afraid of heights. More appropriately, he was afraid of falling from heights. Standing near the edge of the cliff made him rather nauseous, though Narcissa had immediately taken the dive off the side without hesitation.

"I'm starving, shall we find a bistro?" she asked.

"Of course," he replied immediately.

They Apparated on the step outside of the manor and opened the iron gate. The mansion was positioned in the middle of Paris in the Wizarding sect, obscured from Muggles. Nevertheless, they lived close enough to ones to call them neighbors, unbeknownst to their non-magical inhabitants. The mansion had a small front courtyard with blooming hedges, but it was mostly a stone walkway into a small Parisian style mansion. It was quite old and the property had been in the hands of the Malfoy family since before they migrated to England. Though modest compared to both their ancestral homes, this mansion was exquisitely decorated and well-furnished. It suited their needs, though she knew this was no place to raise children in. It contained only four bedrooms, while the Malfoy mansion supported nearly eighteen, some of which were magicked and cursed shut by their previous owners. Throughout the mansion was an aesthetic of esteemed high-backed leather and fabric furniture from the 1600s; only a few things changed as newlyweds came and went.

Narcissa went up the spindled stairs to their shared suite. The most modern thing about the home was the bathroom. Lucius requested a shower installation in the master suite and had the bath moved to the secondary lavatory; she found later for less scrupulous reasons. She turned on the tap and pulled her bathing suit off. The smell and feel of salt water was on her skin. The day of swimming and sunning had left her tired, and still yet the feeling of rejuvenation remained. Narcissa was never more alive than in the months of summer.

She stepped into the shower and let the water run across her shoulders. Her hair had lightened in the sun so much that she mirrored the white-blonde shade of her husband's. Her eyes were sharply offset against her bronzed skin, a deep oceanic blue. She turned away from the glass doors and washed her hair. When she rinsed her hair and briefly opened her eyes, Lucius was sitting on the bathroom counter, eyeing her with keen interest.

She wrapped her long hair over her shoulder and shook her head, laughing softly to herself. He waited only a few more seconds before he was undressed and climbing into the shower behind her.

"You're insatiable," she accused.

"You're a bloody siren," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his hands gripping the curve of her hips. He found the crook of her neck and bit roughly and sucked until she was bruised, and then he drifted to her shoulder to do the same. His hands roamed her body, clutching at her breasts, sliding down her stomach to her hips. He ran his teeth down her spine while he clenched his hand around her clit, and she gasped and sighed. The water ran down the drain, the heat fogging the doors entirely, and Lucius pressed her into the wall and fucked her so roughly he bruised her anywhere he grasped her, his groaning primal and loud. He dug his nails into her skin and scraped slowly across her back while he took her from behind and Narcissa felt the sincerest form of ecstasy. She cried out and pressed her palms into the stone shower wall.

When they were done, they were both trembling, and the water had gone cold. She dressed and dried her hair with her wand into neat, cascading curls down her back. She wore light dress robes in soft, fragile fabric. Paris robes were highly fashionable, and she had purchased nearly the entire summer line from a boutique. They walked to a Wizarding café down the block. It was quiet and mostly empty, but it well-mirrored the Muggle restaurants in the area. Low hanging lights were swinging softly above the tables and a broom whisked by itself around the floor. A young witch seated them and when they sat down, menus flourished in front of them. Since she could not speak French, Narcissa was limited in correspondence, but Lucius's mother was from Lyons, and taught him the language from a young age. She told him what she wished to order, and he translated to the witch with ease.

"Have you heard from either of your sisters this summer?" he asked, idly tapping his fingers against the table.

"Not at all," Narcissa remarked, "Bellatrix is home from her honeymoon. I imagine she is quite busy with her campaign."

The Dark Lord was a topic that frankly they danced around, using simple euphemisms and distracting language to avoid heavy implication. It was too early in their marriage for either of them to be fighting, and the last year or so had been tumultuous and heavy in arranging their own marriage and surviving the difficulties of family, and even the death of her father, so they dodged the subject for the most part. Bellatrix Lestrange was Narcissa's oldest sister and had been heavily drawn to the dark wizard steadily rising to power and fame over the past few years. Narcissa was privy to secrets which she her sister imposed an Unbreakable Vow upon her for. Before Bellatrix married her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, she secretly married Lord Voldemort. And before she had done that, Narcissa rose one night from her bed and went into the hall. From a small opening in her sister's door, she saw the two of them in bed together. He took her sister as a lover when she was fifteen, and he appeared to be in his forties. This was not altogether unusual for the Pureblood Society; the Sacred Twenty-Eight did what they had to in order to survive, and if older bachelors defied their parents' and chose not to marry, they often took much younger brides. However, this man was not one of their own. They met in a pub in Knockturn Alley, and her sister had been obsessive and devoted ever since. Bellatrix married her arranged husband properly and appeared (for what it was worth) to enjoy her married life with him, but she had made a conscious effort to remain stalwart for her Lord.

In the coming months, the Dark Lord's power had grown politically. Gone were the days of him skulking in the ballroom shadows with envy, watching the massive wealth of families of higher pedigrees. He had launched himself in full fruition, regaling on the disgusts of impurity and blood-traitors, Muggle borns and half-breeds. He, like dark wizards before him, wished to eradicate the magical world of imperfection. The trouble Narcissa had with his Pureblood society philosophy came simply from the fact that he did not belong to it. Rumors swirled about him, that he had gone by another name once, that he was not an infamous heir of Slytherin, but instead of a Muggle born or half-blood himself. In the same breath, he claimed to speak Parstletongue and desired to change the world, yet one could not trace the steps of his bloodline. It seemed foolish to believe a man like that.

Lucius, on the other hand, was steadily becoming enthralled. She knew that in time, her sister would help the Dark Lord wage a war. It was an effortless endeavor, in Narcissa's opinion. Regardless of whether one believed blood status mattered, spilling magical blood seemed wasteful and hasty. The Sacred Twenty-Eight were all near relatives; she even conceded that it was in fact possible that she and Lucius were distant relatives. The results were tenuous and messy. Stillborn babies, birth defects, infertility. Squibs. Let the peasants mingle with Muggles, she thought. What did it matter in eradicating them if in the end, witches and wizards of the same bloodline mixed until no magic was left?

"And Andromeda?" Lucius asked, his tone lifted with forced casualty.

Andromeda was also a sensitive topic. Her name was only recently burned from the family tapestry for refusing to marry, but her mother had finalized it. The news reached _Witch's Weekly_ a month later. She broke free from the Black family traditions and heavily criticized Narcissa for remaining enslaved by their society, even more so when she went through with her marriage to Lucius. The last day of school, Narcissa said goodbye to her, and in that moment, they mutually agreed to part ways. She would not lie and say her heart did not ache for her. They spent their childhood trading books and gardening; Andromeda was the only member of her family also fond of summer. The rest were winters who slunk off to the coolest corner of the house and did not show themselves until the leaves faded red and orange.

"She went to stay with the Potters for the summer, so she has a place to kip until she returns to Hogwarts in the fall," Narcissa remarked, "I believe my cousin Sirius arranged that for her; he escapes my Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion each summer."

"They are highly unpleasant," he remarked, lifting his lips to a smile.

They survived their heavy laden conversation and arrived to a topic which they could agree upon: mutual disgust for her extended family, with small exception of course for Regulus Black. Their meals appeared in front of them accompanied with sweet red wine. Narcissa lifted her fork and ate slowly, moving the food around her plate as she thought about the coming age with the Dark Lord at the helm.

"Have you heard from your parents?" she asked.

"They wrote last week," Lucius replied, sipping Elderflower wine from the goblet. He placed the thin-stimmed glass back onto the table. "Though they didn't say so, I can tell from each of their letters that they have been fighting. They didn't go on holiday this year at all. Usually they at least reach the south to go to the beach, but something is troubling them. I imagine we will discover why later this year."

Narcissa pondered what that meant. Abraxas and Ophelia were the only known couple of their generation to marry for love. Since their union, they remained a constant unsightly and affectionate eyesore at any and every dinner party or ball everyone gathered at. Abraxas was not shy about loudly and poetically exclaiming his love for his beautiful wife, and she responded by turning pink and demurely turning her head.

"I'm sure they are fine," she said soothingly, reaching out and touching his hand, "Your parents have been married for a long time. They know how to solve their disagreements."

Unlike her and Lucius, she thought nervously. The man before her had been her fiancé for so long. They forged together as a team against their parents to press their wedding as far out as they could, so that they both might lead individual lives, though they only succeeded by a single year. It had been easy then to confide in all of her feelings to him, and when she was wooing him, a bit of honesty struck him. He was so used to suitors lying and coddling their image into what they believed he wanted, that Narcissa's stark contrast beguiled him. It was a rouse, advice given mostly by her mother, but Narcissa fell in love with him just the same. In the time leading up to their wedding day, they felt like an unstoppable force. A team.

And then the Dark Lord attended their wedding. Narcissa had watched in seething silence as he worked over her husband—not just at her wedding, but other events. Lucius could be swayed by appealing to his ego. Now, they were in blissful honeymoon focus, and she had him to herself for the most part, without the influence of the darkness seeping across their home and community. Paris was their own Utopia.

After dinner, they walked arm in and arm through the streets in Paris. They walked Rue de Rivoli, taking in the beautiful buildings and the winding river. Narcissa was light and inexplicitly happy. Theirs steps were light, and their conversation was happy. She leaned her head against his shoulder and squeezed his arm.

A Muggle turned the corner and stared at them for a moment and then shouted. Startled, Narcissa let go of Lucius.

"Non—non," the man said, lifting a square device in front of them, "Eh, you you're English, aren't you?"

"Yes," Lucius replied, furrowing his eyebrow.

The Muggle had a Scottish accent.

"I'm a photographer," he said quickly, "Taking photos for a series—_Romance in Paris_. D'you mind?"

Lucius opened his mouth to protest but Narcissa nudged him and took his arm again. The photographer smiled encouraging and waited until they were in a relaxed pose and took their photo. He took down their address to mail a copy of their photo (Lucius provided the Wiltshire address) and then they walked on.

"Will that photo ever find your parents' house?" she asked.

"Yes, they actually receive mail. There's a box outside of the gate," he remarked, "Malfoys lived and entertained Muggles when they came to England. Including postmen."

Curious. She knew that most of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had histories like these. It was at one point more popular for Purebloods to utilize less magic. Servants took the place of house elves and wand work was used, but not for extravagance.

"Lovely surprise for them," she replied.

The happy couple strolled contentedly down the street, long into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunshine spilled through the window and across Narcissa'ssleeping frame. It woke her slowly and she roused from the overlarge canopy bed, made of thick oak wood. The floors had been redone before they arrived and still smelled of lumber and stain, the sunshine danced across them, light and glossy swirls of grained wood. The blue hangings around the bed with tiny embroidered stitches of flowers were pulled and pinned to the sides. The golden glow of early summer swam across the room.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Her hair was down around her back, frizzy and tangled from sleep. She pulled a robe on over her night gown and walked out into the quiet corridor. She walked down the staircase and into the sitting room.

The kitchen door was open and light poured in from the windows, bathing the doorway in goldenrod hues against a handsomely decorated mansion, a mix of warm walls and furniture. She passed through the sitting room into the kitchen; Lucius was sitting on a bar stool against the island, a pair of horn rimmed glasses and the Daily Prophet in his hand. He required reading glasses, but he had never used them at school, perhaps only in private, choosing instead to slightly squint to read the tiny letters of text in his books and papers.

A cup of tea steamed next to him on a saucer. He was still in his pajamas, wearing a grey shirt and flannel patterned pants. His long hair was pulled back in a band at the nape of his neck, but he had done so haphazardly. Small strands of white blonde hair escaped at the top of his hair and turned translucent in the light.

"Husband," Narcissa greeted him.

She walked around the side of the island where he sat and leaned into him. She kissed his cheek, and then moved to stand on the other side of the island. The tea pot was on the counter, so she collected a cup from the cupboard and poured the hot tea. She spooned sugar and then picked up the milk saucer and poured until the liquid swirled amber and gold.

"Anything interesting?" she asked him.

"Several Ministry workers have disappeared," he responded, flipping through the paper, "A shop in Knockturn Alley was robbed..."

Narcissa bit her lip as she stirred a spoon through her tea, lightly avoiding the edges of the cup so she did not rudely clink and clank against the delicate bone china. The Wizarding World was usually quiet, a peaceful place with little crime in England, the odd exception of wizards tricking muggles with cursed objects or theft. By far, the worst was usually published in Witch's Weekly. There was a gossip column with journalists that were rather obsessed with the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Narcissa had on the front page more than once due to her engagement with Lucius. Occasionally, they published scathing remarks about their society, deeming their young and arranged marriages outlandish and strange. In this instance, she did not necessarily disagree.

Narcissa's former best friend, Mara Parkinson-Zabini, was forced into a marriage at fifteen. She relinquished a burgeoning writing career as a result. In the summer before their fifth year, Mara had an extremely popular series she wrote about a heroic pureblood witch who rescued villages from monsters in the Witch's Weekly, and in the end was forced to choose between her role or marriage—the character chose death, ravaged by werewolves.

Since marriage, Narcissa had not seen her ex-best friend published anywhere, under any of her common pseudonyms. She believed she knew her writing style to intimately that she could have recognized it anywhere. Nor had she spoken to her Mara in a great deal of time. Her last conversation with her had been when she left Hogwarts. Mara believed that Narcissa chose Lucius over their friendship, and their friendship deteriorated quite rapidly, because Narcissa refused to aid her in stealing potions ingredients to interrogate her fiancé.

"Is this the work of the Dark Lord?" Narcissa asked, stimming her thoughts of the past and tilting her head up to watch him for his reaction.

Lucius was not as adept at hiding emotions as Narcissa was. She was from the Black family, after all, who remained impossibly stalwart in the face of adversity and were genetically skilled Legilmans, with little to no training required. It was their birthright. So while Lucius could find it difficult to read her, Narcissa had no trouble at all reading him. The Malfoys were nothing if not romantics, creative people that spent a good deal of time feeling anxious about making a statement, a mark upon the world. It seemed prudent that Narcissa guide Lucius, so that he made less of a bleak, darkened stain and an actual importance, however, her influence only went so far. She knew the scales were unbalanced between wife and husband in their world.

"I wouldn't know if it was, Narcissa, you forbid me from joining," Lucius remarked quietly, rifling through the paper.

He buried his face and raised the paper just high enough that she couldn't see him. Couldn't read him, more like, but this was more telling than any facial expression.

Narcissa was cool and collected as she responded, "I never forbid you from doing anything. How can I, remember? I'm your wife."

She left her tea on the counter and stalked out of the kitchen. They were not even a year into their marriage and already something was cleaving them in half. Narcissa had already made an Unbreakable Vow to protect her sister's secret with the Dark Lord. She knew who this Dark Lord was: an albeit brilliant wizard who manipulated people and threatened from the shadows, but scarcely lifted a finger himself in the face of his enemies. No, he sent others to do his bidding.

He rode in on the curtails of Grindewald with his blood purity philosophy and wished, like his predecessor, to make the world a better place. So he claimed; Narcissa thought he sought notoriety and fame, using the guide of politics to as a means to and end. He also championed the rights of pureblood women, arguably, taking in women into his fold. A self-proclaimed feminist, a heroic male devoted to the liberation of oppressed pureblood women. They could choose to marry or not under his reign, he said.

Choice. As if he did not demand that every action be in his name, for his honor, that every carefully crafted move not be to his benefit. Freedom was just another tool for a man like him. She understood Lucius's keen interest, his desire to take action on something. Again, Malfoys were romantic, they thought that it was their destiny to make ripples. Abraxas Malfoy had made a ripple when he pretended to defy his parents and marry for love rather than arrangement; in truth, his wife Ophelia Malfoy was a pureblood French aristocrat who spoke an abundance of languages and was well-educated and practiced bachelorette. This had not been an act of rebellion, but an illusion that, for the most part, was widely believed. Smoke and mirrors. Smoke. And mirrors. Narcissa might not have been very romantic, might not have had a world ambition, but she knew when people were lying, and she understood what was true, and that was the closest a Black could get to leaving a mark on the world. There was fancy and flight, and then there was the stark reality of the world they were living in. Lucius was a wildly philosophic and imaginative being and she loved that about him, yes, but there was an unruly, wild part of her as well—creative, in the way she worked, but still firmly rooted. Pure.

She dressed for the day and waited. In the past when they argued, it was always Lucius that broke resolve first and spoke to her. She expected him to come up the stairs and beg for forgiveness—childish, this cat and mouse game. Her mother would have admonished her for it, told her to bend to the wills of her husband so that she could coddle him, win into his favor, and drop what she wanted into his lap. He would be most agreeable if she were a great wife.

Once after their tenuous engagement beginnings, he suggested delaying their marriage far longer than he logically could have, longer than his parents would have let them. She went almost an entire season without speaking to him. Three months of silence, and she hoped he was in agony. She wanted to hurt him, make him doubt himself completely. Of course, it was her O.W.L.S and his N.E.W.T.S, so it was rather easy to get away with not interacting with him. Nevertheless, he waited until she was done with her exams before he ended her long stretch of silent treatment.

After thirty minutes passed by, Narcissa left the bedroom and swiftly walked to the front door. She let it shut loudly and walked down the courtyard. She refused to be an easy wife.

The sun was shining, but clouds were beginning to cover the sky, heavy with rain. There was a bookstore by the wizardingpub she and Lucius often took meals at. The bookstore was also one which she liked and frequented. In a perfect world, Narcissa would prefer to not a be a pureblood woman, forced into an arranged marriage at sixteen, but she would like to think that she would have still chosen Lucius anyway; he was the first man she grew to love, and it felt deeper than anything she had before.

She would strip away the dinner parties and social pressure, the repression, and she would escape from the darkening clutches of the Dark Lord over her community. She would especially escape the whispers and the gossip columns. Once it was scrubbedclean, Narcissa thought she might just own her own bookstore or library, and spend all day reading. She thought that life could be made happiest with a large collection of books. The only thing she might want additionally were gardens. Gardens and books were natural lovers meant to be together, as were forests and secrets, and midnights and lonely train cars.

It took three days for Lucius to break. He found her in a park by the water, holding a Muggle book loftily in her hands. She was pretending to read, but she was actually watching a Muggle painter who was painting the horizon in a furtive way. His rendition was not accurate, just a pressing of blocks and tiny pinpricks that made it appear to be the image he was painting. It was puzzling and bizarre, but she was more intrigued than she would have liked to admit.

"I understand you're angry with me," he started.

Narcissa said nothing. She lifted her eyes to his face briefly, turned her shoulders and faced the other direction. The book, which had been little more than a cover for her people watching, suddenly became the most interesting thing in the park.

Some women feigned anger to get what they wanted. Husbands would shower them with jewels and dressing gowns, rich fabrics and fur. Houses, furniture, tapestries of woven delicate silk. Their own portraits perhaps. A wife might placate her angry husband with a child, a son, to spear forth his family legacy and wealth. The odds seemed unevenly turned in the favor of man, who could buy his wife's love. Women paid the price of months of agony and possibly death. And then women grew to love their children, forgot their husbands. Perhaps even murdered them. Narcissa thought about how it would work—to murder Lucius. A quick poison, Lucius was hardly observant, though they shared a passion for Herbology, he liked the monstrous things. Ones that would pick a wizard up and throw them—Narcissa loved subtle mundane plants. He wouldn't know. She blinked; she had never thought of killing anyone before.

"Do you want to hurt me?" he asked, sitting on the bench, "Is that it? You refuse to talk to me, because you want me to suffer?"

He touched her shoulder, felt her body relax against his touch, but she was stubborn and unwavering. She did not turn to him.

"Yes," she finally said, and stood up abruptly.

She walked smartly across the lawns toward the gardens and Lucius followed.

"I hate this," he said, "I hate this, you know, you weren't like this when we were engaged. You loved me. This—this Dark Lord business has you worried, I know. Cissy. I know you're concerned, the things you saw with your sister, how she acted…"

She saw at once the memory she had of her sister in Hogwarts, staring from a window out at the lake. A bright green light blinked from across the water on another shore and her sister's hand had absently reached for it, desperately trying to grasp something too far from her body. That was her sister now, desperate and yearning, for a man beyond her. She wanted, wanted to fold him inside of herself, wanted to become part of him. Infused brains. She would never get there.

Was this what Lucius was reaching for too? And why was she not enough?

"Look, there's something you should know," he said, his breath hitched.

She stopped walking right before she entered the intricate maze of the garden and turned. Her face was porcelain, adorned with pretty features and eyes sharp with intelligence, but blank.

"I wrote to him," he said firmly, his voice was clear, a velvet accent of words he formed to break her. "I joined. Last week. I joined, Cissy. I'm not sorry for it, and I know you'll be mad, but I won't lie about it. But he's let me stay here, with you, for our honeymoon. Remainder of the year, or maybe more if we want. He said there wasn't a rush."

It took ages for her to respond. Her body seemed frozen in time and there were no thoughts in her head. Her body went rigid, unmoving, her mind a blank canvas. She thought of the Muggle's painting, just a bit of cubes and impressions that created a bigger image of the vast ocean itself. She was one of these, a tiny swatch of oil paint drowning in an ocean of something that might be despair.

The weight of choice fell heavy on her shoulders, but she did not shrug it off. She twisted the delicate wedding band and engagement ring off of her finger. He stopped breathing when he caught her movement. She closed her palm and held it out to him, instinctively he reacted and opened his palm and she dropped the intricate thing, stunning, each gemstone and curve of the band specifically designed by Lucius, his image of their marriage solidified into two rings he held once more in his hands. She withdrew her hand and without warning, popped out of existence. She did not stay long enough to see him anguish, to see him hurl the rings into the darkened sea. She just left.


	3. Chapter 3

Rain fell in icy sheets so loudly she couldn't hear her footsteps as she stumbled up the driveway. She nearly toppled over and fell against the iron gate, fingers wrapped around the slick metal. The hood of her cloak was pulled over her head and her blonde hair hung down around her body, nearly touching her waist, the strands broken apart and completed sodden down with water She looked drowned, like a violent wraith emerged from a body of water, twisting and stumbling around. She was drunk, though no stranger to spirits, still yet Narcissa had never been able to adequately hold her liquor. She worked to convince herself she was sober as she slowly edged up the driveway to her mother's house.

It was mid-evening and she knew her mother would not be home. Not on a Saturday, when there were parties in full swing until the early hours of the morning. Her mother was the only one left in the Black family home, which sat on several hundred acres of countryside. A forest separated the mansion from the Zabini home, though the two families were less than neighbors and only spent time together in public. The Malfoys had been their friends—via her mother, Druella Black, who was friends with Abraxas in school. There were considerable mysteries surrounding the two of them, but Narcissa put them to rest, accepted what she could discover as truth, and moved on from her mother's murky past.

She unlocked the door with her wand—a rune lock that Lucius taught her mother—and opened the door. The home was the same as it had been for the past three hundred years, with the small exception of an end table her mother added to the end of the stairs. On the table was a small black book. Narcissa swayed with the room, buzzing in and out of focus, and flipped the book open. She ran her hand down to the this the list. Saturday—Dinner Party, Parkinson's. The Parkinson's threw long parties, her mother would not return until at least midnight.

"Miss Black?" a voice squeaked from the dark.

Their house elf, Misty, who usually spent most of her time just out of sight, stared at her in shock.

"It's Mrs. Malfoy now, Misty," she said, numbly, and stumbled into the table.

Misty quickly caught the table before it fell against the stairs, then reached out and caught her mistress by the hand. Narcissa broke free from her grasp and wandered down the hall into the kitchen. She procured a glass and found a bottle of wine—the bottle was dusty, her mother hardly drank, and poured it into the glass.

"Mrs. Malfoy," the house elf murmured, her voice high with concern, "Perhaps you would like to rest? I'll tell Lady when she's returned."

"Nonsense," Narcissa replied, picking up both the glass and the bottle and taking them with her as she sauntered away from the counter, "I'll run a bath, I'm chilled to the bone."

The house elf did her best to appease her, running the bath in the large hallway loo, the bath that she and her sisters had bathed in before each party or ball. She and Bellatrix had bedrooms across from one another, two sisters that could get along. Andromeda's old room was the door at the very end of the hall. Her mother's bedroom was on the left of Andromeda's. They lived in the house, but it was ancient, the main home of the Black family meant to be inherited by one of the boys—Sirius or Regulus—but her father had betrayed them before his death, placed the home as collateral of her dowry in her marriage contract. By technicality, Narcissa owned the property, though by realistic standards, her husband owned the property. It was not as though he wasn't entitled to her assets and anything that came with it by virtue of being her husband. She thought of this quite bitterly. This imposter of a man, who loved her and lied to her in the same instance, owned her childhood home. He took everything about her and caged it—didn't he?

There was a time when Narcissa looked at Lucius as a symbol of her freedom. She thought marriage with him would be easy. He was handsome, a great lover, keenly intelligent and sensitive. He made romantic gestures, he was charismatic and powerful. He was a beloved Malfoy, a philosopher and creator. She loved him. She loved him. Journalists once heralded him as the greatest pureblood bachelor of his generation, and it was she who wooed him, she who placed all the cogs into the machine and started it all. He loved her for her brute honesty, her unyielding spine, the plucky way she broke rules. How she waited for him to join his birthday party and dance with her. The drawings in her notebooks of nature and forests.

It broke her now, to love him.

Narcissa opened the door to her room. It was startling empty. Gone were the numerous pots filled with mundane plants. Her closet was emptied. The bedspread was clean but for a few stray dog hairs from the family wolf mix, Max, who was no doubt outside, wandering the forests and howling. She and Narcissa had spent a great deal of time exploring together, but she had always come inside when Narcissa did. Now she knew that her mother let her stay out too long by herself. She had wanted to take her to Paris, but there was little space for her outside. It seemed cruel to let a half wild animal stay inside.

Is that what happened to her, she wondered, her mouth filled with bitterness and wine. Was she a wild thing not meant to be kept in a mansion? In a dress? In a corset? Was that why she went snarling against the liberation of the Dark Lord, why she tried to break her husband over and over? Pitiful, she thought. But she was Narcissa Black. It was not as though he hadn't seen her for what she was before he married her.

She left her bedroom door open and abandoned the thought of a bath. She brought the wine glass to her lips and ducked her head back, drinking the dry liquid.

"Mistress," Misty began, crouching in the hall expectantly.

"Take the bath for yourself," Narcissa said shortly, "Take the night off, Misty."

She tipped herself down the stairs, relying on the railing more than her eyesight until she went to the bottom. She went through the back courtyard doors and left them ajar in the pouring rain. She sat down on one of the stone walls of the veranda and drank, watching the moon barely shining from beneath the dark clouds through the tiny slats of rain she could. Fat droplets of rain drenched her body. And it was only Narcissa and her pale shimmer of the moon in the black.

Her brain exploded in electric synapses of pain at once, alerting her. She rose from a bed she didn't remember lying in and closed her eyes. Her head was throbbing. When she finally adjusted, she opened her eyes and saw her mother at the end of the bed, the hangings ripped open with the sun shining in.

"Drink," Druella ordered, and thrust a goblet into her daughter's hands.

The liquid was dark green. She drained the goblet quickly—it tasted too strongly of basil and peppermint. Her skin flushed, turning her hands lightly pink and she laid back down as she started to sweat. She groaned, rolled over, and vomited into the bin her mother had waiting for her. When she was done, she felt exhausted and worn down, but her headache receded.

"Get dressed," her mother responded, taking the bin with her as she left the door.

She knew that tone, perhaps better than she knew anything. Her mother was furious. Narcissa wasn't supposed to be here. She felt as though she could have recited precisely the lecture she would receive: You're an adult now. Your job is to be devoted to your husband. You're not to come home for a year, it's tradition. When are you going to shed your childishness, Narcissa?

There were robes she knew came from Paris in her closet waiting for her. She went cold. Her dear husband had better not be at the bottom of the stairs, or she might stab him with the first sharp object she found. Worse, she might hex him so badly the parts of him she chose to alter couldn't be put back together again. She wanted, more than anything, to rip him into shreds. But Narcissa dressed instead, tucked her wand in her front pocket, and walked toward the stairs with an outward grace she didn't feel inside.

Her mother was in the breakfast room lounge at the head of the table where her father used to sit before he died. There was no sign of Lucius, and so Narcissa took her old seat at her mother's elbow and poured tea. Her mother said nothing; they ate in companionable silence for over twenty minutes, just as they had before Narcissa's wedding. She loved her mother for this, her poignant and thoughtful silences that allowed one to think without worry of social niceties, or to grieve whatever misgivings were occurring inside.

Once they were done with tea, however, in the midst of Narcissa running jam across her toast, her mother began to speak:

"Do you know you did nearly four hundred galleons worth of damage to this house last night?" she remarked, her voice barely above a whisper. It was light, matter of fact. "Not only did you leave the courtyard doors open and allow substantial amounts of water to seep through the wooden floors and the ancient wallpaper, you allowed your dog to track mud through every inch of this house. Mud I couldn't get out with a spell, perhaps the first time I've never been able to do so. Ah, I also couldn't syphon all the water out either."

Narcissa said nothing. She bit into her toast, allowing her mother's soft voice to eviscerate her. From experience, she knew that her mother was only starting.

"I came home at 11:30, tired from a dinner party and read to slip into a bath and then go to bed, when I come home to find the front door unlocked, the backdoor open, the bath full of unused water and expensive soaps. Mud everywhere—down the upstairs hall, on every rug I could see, on my own bed. In my closet, where your dog was hiding. You were passed out cold outside in the rain, a bottle of my finest wine emptied, and Misty crying in the corner, afraid to move you at all, because you told her to 'take the night off', so she had no idea what to do with herself," she continued, cutting a scone in half, "Ah, but that's not even the tipping point.

"Forty minutes later, your stupid husband barrels through the door, maybe as drunk as you are, with seven dress robes over his arm. He's mad, and I do mean completely out of his mind, begging me to give you these sopping, ruined robes. And I say to myself, 'How do two young people cause this much chaos in so little time?' and then I'm reminded I've just handed my logical, cordial, and well-mannered daughter over to a high strong, artsy Malfoy, and I realize what a fundamental error I made in selecting him for you."

"I should leave him," Narcissa said at once, emblazoned by her mother's distaste of Lucius.

It was the wrong sentence to say. Her mother looked as though she'd been struck.

"On the contrary, Narcissa Malfoy," her mother said, "Get yourself together and go back to Paris."

"I can't," she replied, defeated, "He's done something. I can't go back to him."

"You, unlike your sister Andromeda, chose this life. You chose him and you chose marriage," Druella said briskly, "Which means you go back to him. I daresay he probably hasn't done anything any husband might do. Merlin, Narcissa, you act like you're the first person to have ever been in love."

Narcissa sniffed. "He doesn't love me."

"Men take lovers all the time," Druella remarked tactfully, "It's an unfortunate by product of their privilege and notoriety. So long as he has discretion regarding the when, where, and whom, he can still fulfill his duty as husband. It's the most you can ask for in your position."

She thought immediately of her father, a brute of a man who spent most of his time screaming at other family members, fighting over the estate and finances. He held a high position in the Ministry and argued politics vehemently. She frankly could not imagine her father stepping out on her mother; he seemed so preoccupied with his anger.

"Lucius didn't…take a lover," Narcissa said, furrowing her brow. "Not that I would tolerate it. Why would he? On our honeymoon? Twenty years of marriage, maybe—"

"You mean to tell me he is still faithful and yet you're here, acting like the world is over?" Druella interrupted.

Her mother sighed heavily and placed her palms against the table and stood up, dismissing her daughter's side of the argument as well in one quick motion. "This is ridiculous, Narcissa, you're an adult. You are far too old for this nonsense."

There it was. She stood up abruptly and pushed in her chair. "I don't expect you to understand, mother, but I do wish that you would leave me alone a while. I don't want to see him. That's all."

Her mother met her wishes. She remained in her room for the rest of the day, sifting through books she'd left behind on her shelf. In the evening time, she heard the doorbell ring. She went out into the hall and leaned over the railing. She could not see him, but she could hear him softly whispering to her mother in the foyer. Her body ached. She went back to her room and shut the door, quietly, so that no one would know she was spying. But her mother, loyal to her, turned him away.

He returned the next day and she was not so obliging.

"Narcissa," she said, after knocking on the door, "Let your husband see you, he's worried."

She pointed her wand at the door and locked it, then yanked the hangings around her bed and cried.

Another three days went by and Narcissa grew ill. She caught a fever and refused to open the door and did not eat. Her mother knocked every evening at the same time, but she wouldn't release the spell to let her in. On the fourth day, she was too ill to respond or move from the bed. She kept having nightmares from the fever and slowly, she grew so weak she could not reach for the glass of water, which she usually refilled with a tap of her wand.

On the seventh day, her mother cleaved the door open with a Muggle axe, brandishing the heavy thing nearly her size and breaking it apart in three swings. Narcissa wouldn't rouse when she shook her.

Lucius asked, his voice high with worry as he touched her forehead with his smooth hands and delicate pale fingers, "What's wrong with her?"

"She's dramatic," her mother replied, "Fetch the brown leather bag from my closet."

It took another hour, but her mother, who had once been a Healer, brewed a potion strong enough to treat her fever. She woke long enough to take the potion and slept again, for nearly another full day. When she did finally wake, she felt almost normal.

"This is what happens when you pass out in the rain," Druella admonished, first thing in the morning when her daughter finally rose out of bed, "You catch Scrofungulus."

She saw Lucius standing in the doorway looking grim.

"Get him out of here," she said, her temper flaring.

Druella rolled her eyes. "You don't have the energy to fight me, girl, lay back down."

The next few days she spent in bed reading, still too weak to rise and determined not to see Lucius. The illness she procured was infectious; her mother made a call to St. Mungo's to have Healers come to the house. Her malady was very mild, the Healer announced, ideal for recovery. Any worse and she might not have made it.

"It's common in Paris," she heard the Healer say, dropping low to a whisper in the hallway, "…. the vaccinations we gave her before her travels kept the worst from happening, but Scrofungulus is still tricky…"

The door closed and Lucius stepped inside. He was composed and formal as he picked up the wooden chair by the door which her mother had been sitting in and watching her during the day. He looked not like her husband, but a stranger instead. In the days of hazy illness and fever, she couldn't remember him sitting by her side. She only ever saw her mother.

"I think we should talk," he said.

"I think you should go," she replied.

He dropped the chair next to her bed and took a seat. "You should have pushed me away before we married. Saved me the suffering."

"Your suffering?" Narcissa asked, clawing her way up from the bed. She pressed her back into the pillows.

Her hair was braided and clean, falling softly down one of her shoulders. She wondered when anyone had the time to bathe her.

"My husband joined a murderous regime!" she spat, speaking too loudly.

"Murderous?" he repeated, looking at the door worriedly, "I haven't murdered anyone."

Druella opened the door with a wide swing, a stern expression on her face. "Lucius, perhaps Narcissa would enjoy herself outside in the courtyard. You'll help her, won't you?"

Lucius nodded and she shut the door again with a sharp snap. The Healers in the room were old friends, Lucius quietly explained. They were embarrassing her. He dressed Narcissa and helped her from the bed; she had hardly walked in a little over a week and leaned on him for support. He held her waist and guided her down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

He placed her into a chair in the pale bright sunshine. A cool breeze washed over her. It did, admittedly, feel nicer than her bedroom. Max was lounging in the grass not far, her white fur blowing around. She snored.

"You must talk to me," Lucius said, "I can't do this much longer, Narcissa. I'm broken by this. You barely spoke to me for days and deserted me in Paris. I couldn't find you. I came here in the middle of the night; your mother told me that I was the most pathetic thing she's ever witnessed. I've been lectured since I got here every second she finds me. I've been avoiding her, hiding out in your father's parlor—"

"Excuse me for my imprudence," Narcissa snarled, "My messy life coiled so tightly with your perfection must bother you quite a bit."

"Your spoiled attitude bothers me," he retorted. He inhaled sharply and shook his head, forcing the anger back inside of himself.

Narcissa tried to stand and he pressed her back into the chair. It took little effort, she was hardly at full strength.

"I'm your husband," Lucius said, dropping to her knees.

Her thigh touched his chest and she could feel his heart beat, hammering. He was nervous. "Enough is enough. I know you don't approve. I'm not asking you to host my choices in your heart. I'm asking you to forgive me for the mistakes I've made and am going to make for the rest of our lives."

"Fine, but I never want him in my house," she said, "I won't have him or your friends for dinner. I won't join you. You let him know I never intend to join him. If I ever am forced to host him in my house, I'll leave, and I won't come back."

"Yes," Lucius said, pressing his hands against the side of her leg, enveloping the soft silk of her robes in his fingers. "I promise."

It was a promise only a Malfoy could make.


	4. Chapter 4

Content Warning: From this chapter on, elements of war battles and violence will be featured in addition to suggestions or threats of assault/sexual abuse. No assault scenes will be overly graphic in nature.

They spent another four days at her mother's home, waiting for Narcissa to gain enough strength to travel. The illness faded and the Healers left. In the evenings, Lucius spent time with her, playing cards or Wizard's chess in her bed. She read to him while he laid with his head in her lap, eyes closed as her fingers fluttered through his hair. On their third night in her childhood bed, she was reading when he reached up and took the book from her hands. He angled his body and sat up—grabbing her face with his hands, pulling her into him and kissing him. He tasted like velvet, his soft tongue touching hers anxiously.

His kiss asked her for permission for more, and she obliged, opening her mouth. He kissed her deeper and she was stunned by her urging, her feeling of want. He pulled her to the edge of the bed and dove between her legs, tasting her, running his tongue along every inch of her folds and exploring. They made love well into the night and the distance between them grew smaller, the wounds they inflicted on each other were healed.

But upon returning to Paris, their honeymoon life rife with adventure and sunshine was interrupted by the Dark Lord himself, who imposed upon their holiday and darkened the doorstep of the small mansion in the center of town. She hadn't thought it would be him at first, when the door rang. She expected it to be the shop keeper from the bookstore bringing her the order of summer reading she procured, but when she opened the door it was him, standing in the small alcove between the main door and the foyer, emotionless.

"Mrs. Malfoy, a pleasure to see you again," he said.

His red eyes burned into her skull, but once more he came back empty. Not even he could read the mind of a Black, a veil of inscrutable mystery cloaked their true thoughts. It bothered him that this was so, that he could not tap into a facet of ancient magic and bleed the contents out into himself. She wondered if that was a painful point of his kinship with her sister.

"Sorry, we aren't accepting visitors while we are in Paris," Narcissa replied, politely, "You'll have to call upon us when we've returned to Wiltshire…"

She made to shut the door and he caught it with his hand and pushed it open. He strode in through the door, looking around at the handsome furniture and warm light. It seemed to unnerve him to see it, their life displayed so easily before him. He gathered more from this than he did Narcissa's face.

"Is your husband here, Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked lightly.

"In the back tending the greenhouse," she remarked.

"Do call him in," he said, and took a seat in front of the fireplace.

Bile rose in Narcissa's throat and she turned her back swiftly toward the kitchen, fighting the urge to lash out at him. She understood he was dangerous. She read the Daily Prophet and knew he was responsible for many murders, tortures, and disappearances. More dangerously, he encouraged and appointed others to be violent with him. She thought of her husband, who was gentle and kind, and wondered how a man like Lord Voldemort could twist that.

In the garden was a small greenhouse building where Lucius kept his dangerous magical plants and poisons. He was carefully repotting a venomous looking ivy when she opened the door. He wiped the sweat from his brow—the soil on his gloves stained his hair and smeared across his skin.

"Want to help?" he asked her, gesturing the overlarge pot.

"Perhaps some other time," she said, "The Dark Lord is in our sitting room."

It took a few seconds for her sentence to register, and then he took off his gloves hurried.

"I didn't invite him," he said, dread crossing his face, "I have no idea what he needs. You must believe me. This wasn't an ambush."

"Of course not," she replied coolly, "You wouldn't be standing had you invited him."

A shadow of worry crossed his features at her sarcasm. "Narcissa—maybe—don't—"

"Don't what?" she asked, temper coiled like a cat, waiting to lash out.

"I was going to say, maybe don't insult him terribly," he remarked.

He placed the gloves on top of the table and deposited the ivy into a box—to keep it from wrapping itself around smothering someone unguarded—and left the greenhouse with her. They walked in through the back door and Lucius first went to the basin and washed his hands, carefully toweling the spot of soil on his face, neck, and hands.

"My Lord," he greeted, graciously, as he walked into the sitting room.

"Mr. Malfoy, a pleasure," he drawled, "You do have a lovely little place here."

"Thank you, it's been in the family for quite some time—before we moved to England," he remarked.

"Mrs. Malfoy…tea, perhaps…" the Dark Lord said lightly, folding his long fingers together and smiling to himself.

Lucius stood up from the chair. "Allow me, sir. Or you might prefer something stronger, perhaps…?"

Narcissa flashed her teeth at the both of them. "Good gracious no, by all means, I'm the housewife."

She turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen. Lucius winced each time a cupboard door slammed or when the china clinked together too forcefully. The Dark Lord said nothing but held his chin up with his bridged fingers and listened quietly. Ten minutes later, Narcissa appeared with an overlarge tray filled with tea, biscuits, and sandwiches. She placed it onto the table in between the two chairs where the men sat. As she tried to leave to go up the spindle staircase, he called after her:

"Oh, by all means, Mrs. Malfoy, I beg you to stay and chat with us," he said, "No need to make yourself scarce on my account. In fact, I have quite a few topics to engage you with, should you be willing."

Her legs felt like lead, but she drew up another chair with her wand and sat in it primly. Lucius poured her tea and handed her the cup. She poised carefully with the cup in front of her as it steamed, looking cagey and feline.

"I have contacts with the Ministry to procure you a very esteemed position, should you so choose it, Lucius," the Dark Lord said, "I came at once to tell you. My apologies for not abiding by Sacred Twenty-Eight customs. Your dear wife informed me of my error. Won't happen again, although I am delighted to be privy to your home, it's marvelous."

"Thank you, sir," Lucius began, "What does this position entail? Frankly, I've not much stock for the Ministry. Narcissa's father held the title of a judge on the Wizengamot court for many decades."

The Dark Lord placed the bone china delicate onto the tray. "That's precisely the position I envisioned for you."

"How has it not been filled?" Narcissa asked furtively, "My father died quite some time ago. Winter of last year."

"It would seem that every person who tried to fill the spot…died," the Dark Lord remarked innocently, his lips twitching, "Discerning, but I'm sure nothing will come of it. A Malfoy is meant to be in a position of power. You should direct wizarding law, Lucius, surely you know that."

Lucius shifted in his head. "My Lord, for centuries, the Malfoys have been patrons of arts. We donate steadily and participate in the Ministry in small ways, guiding the political nature of our community, but we have never served. Forgive me if I say I am underqualified. I focused on Ancient Runes and Herbology at Hogwarts."

"Perhaps your wife, then?" he asked, his voice high. "How many Blacks have entered the throes of politics? Your stock is known for their wit and intellect, aren't they?"

"Be that as it may," Narcissa said, "Pureblood women aren't allowed to serve positions in the Ministry—in fact, we're not really allowed to work at all."

Pureblood women were so rich it seemed deplorable of them to make more money, she thought, as if wanting any more was a travesty. No, her society believed it was the duty of the husband or his trust fund to carry the weight.

The Dark Lord leaned forward. "I wondered about that, ah, snag. I despise this bit of social politics, don't you, Narcissa? You're much more than a housewife."

She thought of her mother, who possessed the actual image of domesticity. She followed every instruction on how to be a proper pureblood woman with precision. Her mind was sharp; her mother was a brilliant Healer and adept with cleaning spells, but she had never worked. She married later in life, later than perhaps acceptable, but pursued her studies. She was almost offered post at Hogwarts in the infirmary, but she married instead. It was the right thing to do. It was proper. Her mother, who sometimes worried so much she scrubbed the banister and dusted portraits by hand like a Muggle, and who also stayed in bed for days, suffering from a sorrow Narcissa didn't understand. She had her reasons, her mother would tell her, and then bark at her to leave the room.

"The rules are changing," Narcissa finally said, "It's a slow start, but they are. Lucius and I will lead by example when the time comes, to be more open and equal, but that's our choice. What people do behind closed doors is their business."

A perfectly crafted answer she knew her mother would have provided. She spent her life being coached by Druella Black, it was difficult to trap her with words.

"Indeed, but I wonder, Mrs. Malfoy, if that position should not go to you…? If your husband is concerned about qualifications, that is," he replied smoothly.

He wanted her in his group, she realized, and he didn't know which angle to pursue to get her there. He seemed preoccupied by her lineage, no doubt ensnared with his obsession with her eldest sister, Bellatrix. He had also captured the attention of her sister's husband. Taking in a fine, devout married couple to his fold perhaps looked positive. A family was participating in his actions. It made sense to want more.

"I'm not interested in a political career, my Lord," she replied firmly, "My studies lean more toward the healing arts; Herbology and Potions, too."

Lucius was visibly nervous, casting his eyes from his brazen wife and the Dark Lord, who perhaps was rarely told no. The dark wizard possessed a great deal of patience with her, whatever the reason, as he merely smiled.

"A very worthwhile pursuit," he said, then turned his attention to Lucius, "I have another position, one I think you might be more interested in."

"Of course, sir," Lucius said.

"One of the governors over Hogwarts intends to retire in the spring of next year," he said, "While not the ideal position I would have for you, this would give you ample opportunity to shape young minds, perhaps even your own child one day…"

His eyes flicked to Narcissa's abdomen and his lip curled slightly in disgust. The Dark Lord didn't like children then, she thought, and shifted her weight against the chair, curling her arm to rest her head in her palm.

Lucius sat up in the chair. "I accept, of course, your generosity is immense, my Lord."

"Ah, great news. You're a difficult one to please, Mr. Malfoy," he replied, "Very well, I'll speak with the governor who is retiring and make certain it's done. In the meantime, I wanted to warn you in advance that your return to England next year may prove to be quite shocking."

"What do you mean?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"The political climate of England is shifting," he said, "Things are becoming more drastic. Aurors seem to think there's been infiltration in the Ministry, they are rallying their numbers for war."

"The disappearances," Narcissa remarked.

"Precisely," he said.

"But you are infiltrating the Ministry," she said, "You stopped by to secure Lucius a position where he could vote with your interests in mind. By definition, that is infiltrating."

The Dark Lord stood up abruptly. "Expert evaluation, Mrs. Malfoy. I am. Lucius, let's correspond by letter from now on, I don't want to intrude upon your marital duties again, should your wife expel me from the house herself…"

Lucius bowed his head quickly and Narcissa stood.

"Please, Mrs. Malfoy, accompany me to the door," he said.

It was not a question. An order. She motioned for Lucius to stay behind and walked him out of the main door into the foyer when he turned, and his eyes were insatiably curious and strange at he looked down at her.

"Something I admire deeply about you and your exquisite sister is the marvelous desire you both have to tempt fate," he said.

Without warning, he reached up and touched her neck with his fingers, pressed his thumb into the pulse until he could feel her quickened heartbeat.

"I could snap your neck without regret for the blatant disrespect you show me," he murmured, "I would enjoy killing you, but it's not nearly as satisfying as watching you in your element. Like your beloved sister, who I can't help but take for myself. Perhaps I should take you as well…"

"If you want to fuck me, my Lord, you need only ask my husband," Narcissa retorted, squaring her shoulders defiantly.

He opened the door into the front courtyard and forced her outside, away from the eyes of her husband.

"That would negate the satisfaction in taking, Mrs. Malfoy, in hearing you scream and beg for death just to ease the pain," he said, lifting her palm to lips.

He brushed them across her knuckles. She almost recoiled in disgust.

"Your beauty is unrivaled. Your mind is a dark place I wish I could explore but for the life of me…cannot. I broke your sister once—delightful, the way she screamed as I smashed her into pieces, broken ribs, arms…hips. The Cruciatus Curse is a highly effective method of torture too, I prefer not to get my hands too dirty, but to do a job well...you know, her mind spoke to me then, I could read it."

He paused for a long moment, analyzing her face before he said, "What does it take to break you, I wonder?"

Narcissa pressed her back into the door, uncertain if anyone or anything could save her from this repulsive conversation.

"I admire your bravery, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, "And I applaud your tenacity, your raw confidence, and your iron will to defy me. You think I do not notice you despise me. I may not read your mind, but I know the look when I see it. There aren't many people who would dare say the things you have, and I should kill you for it—it's only fair, I've killed for much less."

He stopped and stared up at a window on the second floor, but she didn't meet his gaze out of stubbornness. After a moment he said, "It will be a shame to destroy something so pure, but I will delight in it just the same."

Narcissa opened the door. "Goodbye, my Lord."

"I'll see you when you return to Wiltshire," he said, "You've been an enchanting host."

She shut the door behind her with ease, but everything inside of her was screaming.


End file.
